Clear the Area
by Alisha Ashton
Summary: This is the story of you and Dean, and how he manages to slip past your defenses. Written so that you can put yourself in the OC's shoes. Sorta set end S8. Slightly AU in the fact that Dean, Sam, Castiel, Kevin, and YOU all live in the MOL Bunker. Everyone is healthy. Cas is still an adorably clueless angel with zero tact. (Title from appropriate Imogen Heap song)
1. Sammy the C-Block

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Not beta'd, so any and all mistakes belong solely to me. This is the first Supernatural fanfic I've posted, so please let me know what you think!

* * *

You sit at the bar, idly picking the soggy label off the side of your beer bottle. You stare up at the TV on the wall, pretending to be engrossed in the game that's on. In reality, you couldn't care less. It's just an attempt to keep people from bothering you. Unfortunately, it doesn't work.

"Hey, beautiful," a man greets you from behind. You can almost feel his eyes raking over your form. "Can I buy you a drink?"

Without taking your eyes from the TV, you hold up your mostly-full beer in reply.

"All right," he laughs. "Can I buy you _another_ drink, then?"

"No, thank you," you answer, hoping that'll be the end of it.

"Aaww, come on, babe. We could-" he tries, but he's thankfully cut short.

You can't help but smirk when Sam clears his throat purposefully from his seat at the corner of the bar. You don't need to look up to know the exchange that's taking place. The man trying to pick you up just looked over at Sam... All 6 feet, 4 inches of him. Sam shifts his broad shoulders, sits up straighter in his seat, and rests his forearms on the bar. He arches a brow. Narrows his eyes. Gives a determined clench of his jaw. Doesn't say a word. Doesn't need to.

Upon hearing the man's predictable retreat, you grin over at Sam and raise your beer in thanks. He chuckles and raises his own, taking a swig before returning his attention to his laptop.

Since you started hunting with the Winchesters about a year back, you and Sam have had a mutual agreement. Persistent guys hit on you? Sam makes his sizable presence known. Girls hit on Sam and won't take a hint? You send them packing. It works out great for you both. But as content as you both are with the arrangement, not everyone is a fan.

"Enabler!" Dean calls as he slides onto the stool beside you and leans across the bar. He points over at his brother with a smirk and shakes his head in disapproval. "You're enabling her, Sammy, and the shit has gotta stop."

"Dean," Sam greets with a heavy sigh, barely looking up from his notes. "I take it you struck out?"

You try to muffle your laughter by taking a gulp from your beer, dodging Dean's scowl by returning your attention to the TV.

"This isn't about me," Dean insists indignantly. He points back and forth between you and Sam. "This is about you two and your... your... little anti-sex club thing going on over here."

You and Sam groan in unison as Dean motions for the bartender to bring him another drink. Not _this_ again.

"It's not natural," Dean says. "It sure as hell ain't healthy. How long's it been now? I mean, for you, Sam, I know it's been at least-"

Sam's bitch-face is extreme enough to deter his brother from finishing that sentence.

Dean winces in response, but barely misses a beat before turning his attention back to you.

"And I know for damned sure you ain't been laid once the whole time you've been with us," he declares with entirely too much confidence.

Despite your efforts to appear unaffected, your jaw still clenches. You hope against hope that Dean's not drunk enough to start offering his assistance in ending your dry spell. It wouldn't be the first time he's put the offer out there. You see Sam shift uncomfortably out of the corner of your eye. He meets your gaze briefly as Dean downs his drink. Sam's thinking the same thing you are and he's getting ready to rabbit, you're sure. He'll be out the door at the first hint of Dean trying to get into your pants. It can't be pleasant to listen to your brother running his game.

But you're not willing to have that discussion with Dean again. Not with him looking and smelling and sounding the way he does. It makes it damned hard to continue saying no when the guy is practically sex on two legs.

An idea occurs to you. Maybe if he thinks you're getting some occasionally, he'll stop constantly seeing you as a project to cross off his to-screw list.

"You think so, huh?" You reply coolly, aiming to get a rise out of him. To derail his whiskey-addled train of thought. To make him think you aren't nearly as sex-deprived as you truly are.

It works.

Dean pauses, frowning thoughtfully at what you're intimating. But an instant later, he starts laughing.

"Pfft. Yeah, right! I'd know," he scoffs and waves you off. He turns toward Sam, expecting to share a good laugh at how ridiculous the notion is of you getting some without his knowledge.

Sam, though, bless his heart, plays along. He gets an unsure look on his face, lifts one shoulder slightly, and tilts his head. A silent, _I wouldn't be so sure about that, man_.

You wait one tick. Then two.

Predictably, Dean does a double-take, his confidence faltering as he scans your expression for any hint of amusement. You give him nothing. He seems to sober considerably.

"Wait, what? When? Where? With who?" He demands as he turns to face you fully. You refuse to scrutinize his tone, the look on his face. It's mainly disbelief that you could have done something without him noticing. It's partly wounded, though. You don't want to consider whether that part is caused by jealousy or just offense that you hadn't told him all the sweaty details.

Sam snickers at his brother's reaction and you're thankful for the distraction. Any longer under Dean's direct gaze and you'd have started sweating.

"What's it matter to you, anyway?" You ask with a heavy sigh. "Sam and I are more than happy with our... anti-sex club. And no one's asking you to join. Nothing's stopping you from nailing everything that moves."

You're hoping to get him to change the subject, because Dean's right, you haven't had sex of any kind since well before you met up with the Winchesters. You're actually approaching three nookie-free years now. But Dean doesn't need to know that. He's already on your desperately-needs-to-get-laid scent like a bloodhound. God help you if he ever gets an actual number to obsess over.

"Oh, come on. Not _everything_ that moves!" Dean replies with a grin. "Give me at least some credit."

There's something in his eyes now. Something new. You can't put your finger on it, but you have the sneaking suspicion that you're in deep trouble. Hmm... Perhaps it hadn't been a wise move to pretend you'd slept with someone. That brief period of doubt might have only served to steel Dean's resolve.

Shit.

"Seriously, though, what's the deal?" He asks, interrupting your growing dread. "I mean, Sam over here, I get. Not exactly the smoothest track record with the ladies."

"Hey!" Sam cries indignantly.

"Tell me I'm wrong." Dean challenges.

Sam opens his mouth to protest, but instead grudgingly nods his agreement.

"Exactly," Dean declares. "But you? What's your excuse?"

"I don't need an excuse," you reply.

"I mean it's not like you're..." Dean starts with a laugh, but trails off and exhales loudly, as if something suddenly occurred to him. "Whoa, wait. You're not-? Are you into _chicks_?" He asks with wide, hopeful eyes and an ill-behaved grin that could stop traffic.

Before you can have any fun tormenting Dean with the possibility, Sam chimes in.

"Nope," he says distractedly while copying something from his laptop into his notebook. "She shoots them down, too."

"Maybe they just weren't her type," Dean offers, not ready to abandon the idea just yet.

Sam gives him an incredulous look. "Dude, trust me, the girl she turned away an hour ago was so hot she'd be _anyone's_ type," he assures.

You frown at Sam when he glances over at you. _Traitor_.

He gives you a sheepish smile in response.

"So, what? You saving it for marriage or something?" Dean teases. "'Cause, in case you hadn't noticed, this lifestyle doesn't really allow for long-term dating."

You sigh and shake your head. "Hard as it may be for you to believe, regardless of how slim the chances are of a hunter starting up any kind of lasting relationship, it doesn't mean all of us are resigned to filling our beds with every warm, willing body we come across. Maybe we'd prefer to actually care about the people we sleep with."

Dean purses his lips and stares at you. He doesn't seem to have a response for that. At least, not one that he's willing to voice.

"You may as well be speaking Greek to him," Sam laughs.

"Killjoys," Dean mutters and motions for the bartender to bring him the first of many more drinks.


	2. Knock, Knock

One thing you can say about the Men of Letters bunker: excellent water pressure. You have yet to walk out of the shower without feeling 10 times better than you did when you got in.

After pulling on a tank top and a pair of loose bed-pants, you towel dry your hair and walk back to your room. It's not 5-stars or anything, but it's all you could ever ask for. One of these days you'll get around to decorating, but really? You're just happy to have a safe, clean place to call your own.

Your room is situated about as far from the main living areas as you can get. The distance typically provides privacy. You only bump into Kevin once in a while when he gets turned around in the maze of hallways. Sam will send you a text before ever showing up unannounced at your door. (Unless, of course, it's an emergency.)

Castiel, though, has been known to occasionally poof! into your room without warning. If a question pops into his head or he feels the need to tell you something, he thinks the next logical step is to just show up uninvited to speak with you. His unexpected visits have resulted in some awkward conversations. Like explaining the purpose of a bra to the angel... while standing in front of him wearing only your bra and thong. Or said-angel waiting until breakfast the following morning, in front of the guys, to come out with this gem:

_"I am unfamiliar with the use of roses as wards," he announced, brow furrowed as if he had been pondering this all night. "Tell me… what is the purpose of the flower tattooed on your left buttock?" _

_It was a good thing Sam was sitting close enough to smack Dean on the back and dislodge the piece of bacon he choked on. _

But, you have to give credit where it's due - Cas has gotten much better lately. Dean's spent a considerable amount of time stressing to him the concept of personal space and privacy in people's bedrooms, and reiterating its importance when dealing with women.

That being said - Dean, himself? Not so easy to avoid. Especially when something's bothering him. Or when he's bored. (God help everyone when he gets bored.) And since he has the convenient, frequently used excuse of 'just passing by' your door on his way to the garage to check on his Baby, he stops by far more often than is good for your blood pressure.

"Knock, knock," he says from your doorway now, though you heard him coming a mile away. He'd intentionally made noise to avoid startling you.

Then again, noting the way he's currently swaying and leaning heavily on the door frame for support, his shuffling and stomping might not have been intentional after all. He gives you a goofy smile and your stomach drops.

Oh, Lord. He's kicked in the ass. That means he's going to be even more adorable and hard to resist than usual.

You toy with the notion of praying for Cas to come and extradite the drunken Winchester from your bedroom. You quickly decide against it after imagining the conversations that would take place, as well as how long it would take to get them both out of here.

"Wow. Still up, huh?" You tease, looking over your shoulder at him as you brush your hair up into a ponytail. "Thought for sure you'd be sleeping it off by now."

"It'll take a hell of a lot more alcohol than that to keep me down," he assures.

With that said, you watch him cross your room and flop down face-first onto your bed.

"By all means, make yourself comfortable," you comment wryly.

"_Don't mind if I do_," he replies, but his words are heavily muffled by your pillow. He rubs his face against it before rolling over onto his side and settling in just like he belongs there.

You shake your head and laugh, busying yourself with putting your clothes in your hamper. From behind you, you hear the telltale '_thunk…thunk_' of his boots being toed off onto the floor. Your eyes widen in surprise. He really is just going to make himself at home in here, apparently.

You have no idea why he's in your room and, more importantly, why he's torturing you by climbing into your bed. You're damned well gonna have to rewash that pillow and blanket now. They both undoubtedly already smell like him. All Dean-sweat and leather and gun oil and whiskey. Damn him. You wonder how many times you'll cave and sniff the linens before tossing them into the washing machine...

Steeling yourself for whatever's to come, you turn back to face him. You had really been looking forward to crashing for the night. Now there's a Winchester-sized roadblock standing directly between you and sleep.

"What can I do for you, Dean?" You ask tiredly.

He grins and scoots over on your bed, patting the empty space beside him in invitation.

"_Ooohhh_ no! Definitely not," you laugh, arching a brow and stubbornly crossing your arms over your chest.

"What? I'm not gonna try anything. I swear," he insists. His inebriated attempt at an innocent smile is priceless.

"Really? Dean Winchester is drunk, in my bed, wants me to join him, but he's 'not gonna try anything'? _Christo_."

"Oh, wow. I have to be possessed to not be trying to get into your pants?" He asks.

You smirk, but say nothing.

"You wound me," he says, clutching his chest in feigned insult before trying again at persuasion. "Cooommee oonnn. I give you my word. Not gonna try anything."

"Then what reason could you possibly have for wanting to share my bed when you have a perfectly good mattress of your own in your room?"

"I just want to talk," he insists.

"So talk," you reply stubbornly.

"Not unless you come over here," he declares. Mirroring your pose, he crosses his arms over his chest and makes a big show of getting more comfortable, nestling down into your pillow.

_I may need to burn that thing now_… you think. _Washing it might not be enough_.

"I got all night, doll," Dean says. "And I ain't movin'."

You groan. As tired as you are, you're not sure you'll be up for the feat of strength it would require to resist him if he comes on to you. But, again, you're exhausted. And whether Dean's in there or not, you're going to sleep in that bed.

With a sigh, you trudge over and climb up onto your mattress, thankful that you opted for a queen-sized instead of a twin. At least there's some space between the two of you. You opt for resting on your back. Safer that way. Not facing him directly, or else you'd have to stare into those damnably green eyes of his. Not on your stomach. That would put your ass within reach if he gets grabby. Could also result in him climbing on top of you and offering, yet again, to give you a back-rub. (As if it would stop at a massage if you ever let him put those hands on you.) Not turning your back on him. That'd be a majorly bad idea. It'd put you in the position to play little-spoon if he's drunk enough to feel cuddly.

Dean grins victoriously as he watches you try to get comfortable beside him.

"Hi," he greets when you finally settle in and dare to glance over at him.

You can't help but crack up.

"Man, you are _sooo_ wasted," you say with a shake of your head.

"Not that wasted," he insists.

"Whatever," you laugh.

Sure, not wasted. Because he's always this happy-go-lucky when he's sober.

"So, you got your way. What do you want to talk about?" You ask as you look over at him again.

He bites his bottom lip (which is way sexier than it has any right to be) and an exceedingly rare look of indecision passes over his features. You frown deeply at that, wondering what in the world could possibly be going through his head. Turning on your side to face him fully, you study his expression curiously.

"What is it?" You ask worriedly.

"You care about me," he finally states matter-of-factly.

You're sure your expression is comical. For a moment your face can't decide whether to go with shock, denial, agreement, or amusement, so it involuntarily shifts back and forth between all of them.

"Umm... okay," you answer slowly and cautiously. It comes out sounding like a question. You have no idea where this is coming from or where it's going.

"You do," he assures, as if you need him to tell you this. "I mean, not because of you saving my ass or stitching me up, 'cause we all do that shit for each other. It's the other stuff. The talking and the hanging out. Looking out for me. Making sure I get the last piece of pie..."

"Pie equals affection, huh?" You laugh.

"Damned straight," he agrees with a grin.

"Okay... so... where are you going with this?"

"You do, though - care about me," he reiterates.

It takes you a minute to realize he's not going to let you off easy. He's waiting for you to confirm it.

You inhale deeply through your nose and exhale slowly.

He waits patiently.

Bastard.

"Sure. Yeah. I do." You answer reluctantly and pray to God that he's not going to lean over and kiss you, because if he does? You're toast. There'll be no more fight left in you. No way will you resist.

Instead, he gives you one of his 10,000 megawatt smiles.

"Okay then," he says, clapping his hands together and getting up on his knees on the bed beside you as if something's been decided.

"Okay then...what?" You ask, trying to follow along with his train of thought.

"At the bar tonight, you said you wanted to _'actually care about'_ a guy if you're going to sleep with him. You care about me. Said so yourself. So…" he pauses to snap his fingers and do a sexy little dance that involves entirely too much hip motion. "Let's do this thing."

"Oh my God!" You groan in exasperation and roll over onto your back, trying to ignore the way he's licking his lips and staring at you.

"You can call me Dean," he says cheekily and waggles his eyebrows when you chance a look up at him.

"_Dean_..." you sigh, covering your face with your hand. "I am not going to have sex with you. Even if you did come in here armed with drunken logic."

"Irrefutable drunken logic, thank you very much," he corrects. "And why the hell not?" He asks, pouting.

No, you are NOT going to move your hand away from your eyes and look over at those gorgeous lips shaped into a full-on pout. It'll be too much to bear.

"You really thought you'd cracked this one, huh?" You ask with a smile. "Figured out the solution to the puzzle?"

"Umm... yeah!" He answers in frustration, and it sounds remarkably like 'no shit!'

After a moment, he flops down onto the bed beside you. He's closer this time, you note, but he's on his back now.

"I don't get you," he announces with barely concealed disappointment.

"I'm not going to sleep with you because it'll be weird," you offer, finally working up the nerve to look over at him.

"Only if you're into that kinda thing," he teases, deliberately misinterpreting your words as usual.

"Ha-ha, smart ass. You know what I mean. Afterwards, it'll make things...awkward or tense. It'd be like starting the countdown till I had to leave. And I happen to like it here. A lot."

Dean considers that for a long moment, then sighs and reaches down between you to take your hand in his. You tense at first at the contact, but relax when he glances over at you.

"Yeah, well. We like having you here, too," he grumbles as he interlaces your fingers.

"Are you gonna keep pouting?" You ask with a smirk.

"Will it get me anywhere?" He asks hopefully.

You laugh and shake your head.

"Then no," he replies.

The room settles into silence for several minutes.

You don't even realize you're starting to doze off until his voice startles you fully awake again.

"Why would it have to... you know... get weird?" He asks.

You open your eyes and, against your better judgment (you blame your exhaustion), you roll over onto your side to face him.

"Because..." your voice is sleep-softened already, even to your own ears. You trail off when you look at the profile of this gorgeous, perfectly imperfect man in your bed, holding your hand. You're not sure you can find the courage to finish what you were saying.

Dean rolls over then, shimmying down the bed enough to be eye-level with you. He's still holding your hand in his, and has somehow managed to bring them both up against his chest... His warm, muscular, manly chest wrapped in soft, touchable cotton and dear GOD what had you been trying to say before?

"Because what?" He prompts softly as his eyes intensely search yours for answers.

_Whhhyyyy_ does his voice have to get even sexier when he's tired? You swallow hard and focus with all of your might on one of his shirt's buttons. There. Something not-sexy to stare at.

"Because..." and you have to close your eyes before jumping off of this cliff, "just sex wouldn't be enough."

The words seem to echo in the silence of your room.

You finally told him the truth. The real reason you've never let him get closer than a friend.

You want more with him. SO much more than 'just sex'. And if you start...? If you get a taste of what it could be like to have him...? Your heart wouldn't be able to stand watching him go on as if it had meant nothing. It would kill you to watch him move on to the next girl, to joke around with you about his latest one-nighter, to flirt with women in front of you as if it wouldn't be tearing you up inside. Eventually, it would become too painful, and like you said, it would be only a matter of time before you'd have to leave. You can't do that to yourself. You'd rather have him as a close friend than that.

Dean is quiet for a minute, and you may or may not be holding your breath the whole time.

"Huh." He finally breathes before descending into silence again.

Another minute passes.

Dean nods to himself, as if he's got it all figured out, and says simply, "Okay."

Without saying another word, he pulls you closer to his chest and curls himself around you.

"Dean?" You squeak nervously, because _seriously_? So not fair surrounding you with warmth and soft skin and Dean-scent when you're trying to be strong-willed here!

"Go to sleep," he instructs and presses a kiss to your thoroughly-furrowed brow.

Go to sleep?

Really?

How the hell does he expect you to fall asleep like this?

But he must know better than you do, just how close you are to passing out. You only obsess about your current position for a matter of minutes before you catch yourself yawning, nuzzling closer, and sighing contentedly.

You smile when his adept fingers free your hair from the tight ponytail you always wear. He shakes it out across the pillow and gives a little '_hmm'_ of approval. You laugh lightly when you feel him chuck your hair-tie across the room. Apparently he prefers your hair down.

His fingers passing through your hair in a slow, steady rhythm lull you into a deep sleep.

* * *

**A/N: **More to come soon! What do you think so far?


	3. The Deviousness of Dean

You wake up alone.

Yeah. Big shocker there, right?

At least the lingering scent of him tells you that it wasn't all a dream. This wouldn't have been the first time you woke from a night with Dean, only to discover that it hadn't been real. Out of curiosity, you slide your hand beneath the pillow beside you, finding it still relatively warm. He must have just crept out a few minutes ago.

Sitting up, you yawn and look around your room. Everything seems to be in order, but there's no sign of him. You bite your bottom lip and wonder what that means.

Did he wake up this morning, remember your little confession that 'just sex' wouldn't be enough - that you wanted more with him - and freak out? Or had he been so drunk last night that he woke up today with no memory of how he got here and had an, 'OMG, WTF am I doing in her bed' moment? Or is it just that he's not exactly a master of the morning-after, regardless of the lack of sex?

You shake your head and pump the brakes on your oncoming emotional turmoil.

You close your eyes and take a deep, steadying breath.

Whatever happened, however he's going to act towards you when he sees you, you decide to give yourself five minutes. Just five blessed, uninterrupted, blissful moments to bask in the fact that you spent the entire night curled up in Dean Winchester's arms.

At that thought, you fall back heavily onto your mattress. You can't help the smile that slowly spreads across your face as you stare up at the ceiling. You even allow yourself to cave and clutch the pillow he used to your chest, savoring his scent and the last of his warmth.

You try to recall every detail... The weight of his arm draped over your side. The rhythm of his breathing. The feel of his lips pressing to your forehead. The way his voice rumbled through his chest. The sensation of his fingers running through your hair. The feeling of safety and peace.

You catalogue it all, burn it into your memory, keep it as a safe place in your mind that you can retreat to later down the line; a haven to escape to the next time you experience something unbearably dark, terrifying, and/or painful. In a hunter's line of work, that's pretty much guaranteed to happen from time to time.

Once your self-allotted five minutes are up, you reluctantly climb out of bed. Time to face the day.

You've already finished your morning routine by the time you notice Dean's little parting gift. You kept your hair down, just as Dean left it, while you dressed and brushed your teeth. But now that you're preparing to pull it back up into your typical tight ponytail, you find yourself staring down into the drawer of your hair care items in shock.

Every hair-tie... Every last one (even the one Dean launched across the room the night prior), has been sliced. He cut each of them at least twice, preventing you from simply knotting them closed in order to use them. Diabolical bastard. You hold up the useless scraps of elastic and don't know whether you should be pissed, amused, or very, very afraid of just how devious he can be for kicks.

Growling in frustration, you make an attempt to tame your unruly locks.

Sam and Kevin are seated at the table when you enter the kitchen. Both have their noses stuffed in books. Someone already went out for breakfast, so you snag your usual order from the grease-spotted paper bags.

You've taken a seat and started eating by the time the peanut gallery starts making comments.

"Oh... Wow." Sam states and tries his best not to laugh at you.

"New look?" Kevin asks, and he's having far more difficulty keeping his laughter at bay.

To say the current bed-tousled state of your hair is a far-cry from your usual slicked-back, tightly controlled style is a drastic understatement.

"Yeah," you answer plainly.

"Was it...intentional?" Kevin asks and this time he does let some laughter slip.

You stop mid-chew and scowl at him over your sandwich.

He forces his expression to turn serious and shakes his head repentantly, hoping to avoid your wrath.

"I'd be careful," Sam warns with a thoroughly amused smile as he brings his coffee to his lips, "That gets any closer to the designation of 'bed-head', Dean's liable to threaten you with the clippers."

Speaking of the hair-sabotaging devil, Dean chooses that precise moment to enter the room. When he focuses on you, his face lights up in a self-satisfied grin. You note that he's changed out of his clothes from yesterday - probably to avoid heckling from Sam - and showered. Somehow, regardless of the amount of alcohol he consumed last night, he's once again dodged a hangover.

"Who am I threatening?" He asks, playing innocent.

"Me, if you're feeling particularly brave. Couldn't seem to find a hair tie this morning," you reply evenly, keeping your eyes locked with his as you arch a brow.

Dean takes a moment to inspect his handy work, as if this is the first time he's seeing it. He shrugs and gives a '_hmm_' of approval identical to the one he gave last night.

"Looks good," he declares nonchalantly as he takes a seat across from his brother. "Wild, just-rolled-out-of-bed hair is hot on a chick, Sammy. On you, it's just plain unacceptable."

And like it's any other day, he puts his boots up on the chair beside him and digs into his breakfast.

There's no weirdness between the two of you, you find as the day wears on. Everyone falls into their familiar routines. Sam is online looking for potential hunts. Kevin is working on translations, occasionally grumbling under his breath and gripping his head as if he can squeeze the answers out. Dean has taken over most of the table top to clean everyone's guns and sharpen all the knives. Not that they need it, but it keeps him happy, so no one says anything.

You're reading and trying to keep Castiel entertained so he won't bother the other guys.

Cas' new thing lately has been observing and mimicking you. He's decided - after hearing it a million times - that his "understanding of the subtleties of non-verbal human communication needs a great deal of improvement." He somehow nominated you to be his mentor for this little project. According to him, "Women are vastly superior to men in the use of facial expressions, eye contact, body language, and cadence of breathing to convey emotions and thoughts."

It's not as annoying now as it used to be. You barely notice the angel's scrutiny any more. This becomes a problem when you look up from twirling an errant lock of your hair and find Dean watching you intently. Apparently, your hair-play is distracting and even more deserving of his attention than the partially assembled gun in his hands. The two of you share a smirk bordering on flirtatious before you return your attention to your book.

But the shared look hadn't gone unnoticed.

"What was the meaning behind that interaction?" Castiel asks curiously.

Realizing your mistake, your eyes widen as if you just got caught with your hand in the cookie jar.

Castiel sits up and smiles. "Ah, surprise... guilt..." He carefully interprets from your expression.

From across the room, you hear Dean trying and failing miserably to muffle his laughter.

You can feel a deep blush heating your cheeks.

Cas snaps his fingers and points at you as if he has the winning answer to a pop quiz. "Embarrassment!" He declares, thoroughly pleased with himself.

"Very good, Cas," you offer through gritted teeth, hoping that the praise will deter him.

His brow furrows. "But I still do not understand the meaning of the original interaction. Or the cause of the embarrassment," he insists.

"You're never gonna fully understand women, Cas," Dean chimes in and you shoot him an appreciative smile when he glances over at you. "No one does. Quit while you're ahead."

Castiel frowns deeply at this.

Sam, having missed the start of the conversation (or else he'd be grilling you, too), looks up from his laptop. Seeing Cas' expression, he adds, "Dean's right, man. Don't beat yourself up. It's a lost cause."

Reluctantly, Castiel relents and goes back to watching you read. You make a note to be extra careful around him moving forward.

For the rest of the day, other than the occasional (extremely) discrete looks you share, everything is precisely as it was before you knew what it felt like to sleep in Dean's arms. You're not sure what to do with that. For the sake of keeping things normal, is this going to be something you two never speak about? Because from what you've seen, ignoring the elephant in the room is sort of a Winchester tradition. Or is he going to torment you with it only when the other guys aren't around? Was it a one-off deal brought on by too much booze?

At 1:43 AM, you get your answer.

You're jarred awake by the feeling of weight slowly settling onto the bed beside you. Thankfully, your eyes manage to focus before you can shoot him.

"Whoa... _Easy_..." He urges, cautiously guiding you to lower your gun away from his face.

"Dean?" You ask, wincing in confusion, and look over at the clock. Your pulse quickens as you realize he might be waking you up to tell you a monster's about to burst in. "What's up?" You ask, renewing your grip on your gun and turning to face the door.

"Nothing. We're good. Everything's quiet," he assures.

You relax considerably.

"Okay... Okay, good," you breathe as you nod distractedly.

Your brain's already trying to slip back into sleep now that you know you're safe.

"Which means..." Dean prompts with a smile.

You look down to find his hands trying to free the vice grip you didn't notice you still had on your weapon.

"You don't have to shoot anybody, Tex," he laughs.

You let him take your gun before it finally dawns on you.

"Dean?"

"Hmm?" He replies as he switches your gun's safety on and slides it back beneath your pillow.

"You're in my bed again."

"You noticed that."

"I did."

"And?"

"And _why_ are you in my bed again?"

He shrugs noncommittally and proceeds to lay down - same side of the bed as he was on before. Apparently, he's staked his claim to the right half of your mattress. Shouldn't come as much of a surprise. It's the side closer to the door.

When you continue to stare at him, he simply reaches up and pulls you down beside him. He yawns before laughing at your expression.

"Your face is gonna freeze like that," he teases.

You realize you're still staring at him as if he's sprouted a second head. Maybe even more so now that you're so close to him, because now you can smell his breath. His alcohol-free breath.

"Wait, you're...sober?" You ask in surprise.

"Painfully."

"Huh." Is all you can manage.

"Yup."

"Ooookay..." You drawl in uncertainty.

_What the hell is going on here? Did you miss something?_

"Sleep." He instructs when you open your mouth to demand an explanation. He gives you a drowsy smile.

"Sleep?" You repeat incredulously. This again? Not that you're gonna complain...

"That's what I said."

Much to your poor heart's chagrin, he rolls you over onto your side. He pulls you closer, pressing your back against his chest, and nuzzles his face against your (still) loose hair.

"_Mmm... like it better this way_," he mutters drowsily behind your ear.

You sorta melt.

His hand finds yours, and he interlaces your fingers.

You try not to whimper. If he slides his hips forward a few inches and presses his body fully against yours, you might just spontaneously combust.

As if sensing the chaos of thoughts and questions swirling in your head, Dean just holds you closer and, mercifully, keeps all contact above the belt.

God, he's good at this. Before long, you start to focus on the beating of his heart against your back, instead of trying to figure out what any of this means. You abandon your doubts in favor of the feeling of his warm breath against your neck.

He makes the most adorable, sexy little contented sounds every once in a while, nuzzling his face in your hair, evidently inhaling your scent and enjoying the feeling of it against his cheek.

You drift off thinking, _a girl could get used to this_...

* * *

**A/N:** Thoughts? Comments? Want to see more?

Thank you so much to the reviewers so far! I'm so happy to hear that you're enjoying it! Be sure to keep sharing your opinions. I adore reading them.


	4. Stay Now

A week passes. Every night, you go to bed alone, only to be woken by Dean slipping in beside you at some point after midnight.

You don't talk about it during the day. Hell, you don't talk about it during the night, either. But whatever this is, it's drama-free and amazing, so why mess with a good thing? True to his original drunken word, Dean never tries anything. It hasn't effected your friendship or dynamic working together as hunters, so hey - no harm, no foul, right?

Everything's fine.

Juuuust fine.

I mean, true, you do catch yourself staring at his lips more often now than you ever used to. You could have sworn it was never this difficult to resist that particular urge before... And he has kind of developed this habit of placing his large, warm hand on the small of your back when the other guys aren't around.

And, okay, he has been staying longer in the morning than he used to. He _may_ have even taken a shower in your bathroom the other day and, as a result, you _might_ have been subjected to a view of him wearing only a low-riding towel on his hips that caused your brain to temporarily malfunction.

You've sort of taken to leaving your hair down all the time, unless you're on a hunt. And he has kind of taken to brushing it back out of your face or running a hand over it when you're alone.

And yeah, okay, when you woke up with him yesterday, he did give you a gorgeous sleepy smile, a rumbling, "_Mmm... G'morning..._"and he may have started inching his face closer to yours as if the next logical step was a kiss.

But he caught himself.

It's fine.

You've totally got it all under control.

Dean is currently sleeping on his back, with you pulled against his side and an arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders. As if he needs to hold you in place. As if you're going anywhere. As if someone could _pay you enough_ to make you get out of this bed.

Your head is resting on his chest as you drift in and out of sleep listening to his heartbeat. Your fingers are lazily running back and forth over the soft cotton of his t-shirt.

When you feel the shift in pressure around you, hear the familiar fluttering of wings and rustle of fabric behind you, you refuse to believe it. He can't really have come in here. Not after Dean talked to him so many times about this. And, more importantly, not while you're wrapped around Dean's side.

"Oh. I, um..." Castiel says nervously.

Your body goes rigid. Dean's muscles jerk as he startles awake.

"You have _got_ to be shittin' me," Dean growls before he even opens his eyes.

"This is... 'awkward'... right?" Castiel asks you quietly, looking to you for confirmation when you glance over your shoulder at him.

"Yeah, Cas. This is definitely awkward," you assure.

He nods and you swear you catch him smiling to himself that he properly identified the discomfort.

"This is a bad time. I can see the two of you are..." He tries, but curiosity will always get the better of him. He abandons his efforts to make a swift escape in favor of trying to understand what it is he's seeing. "I was unaware that the two of you had started having relations."

You groan and hide your face against Dean's side. "We're not 'having relations', Cas. We're sleeping."

Beside you, it feels like Dean's ready to start shouting, but he's somehow managing to hold his tongue.

"I can see that you are not currently involved in the _act_ of having relations. Obviously," Castiel replies.

You arch a brow. Was that sass? Did Cas just _sass_ you?

"What I meant was that you have entered into a relationship of a sexual nature," he clarifies.

"Nope. Just sleeping," Dean replies sharply.

"In the same bed?"

"Sure as hell looks that way, doesn't it?" Dean snaps as he rubs the sleep from his eyes.

Hearing Dean's patience reaching an end, you roll over onto your back and look up at Cas. He meets your gaze imploringly, knowing that if he asks Dean anything else, he's liable to get kicked out.

"But... is it not strange for two adults to share a bed when they have no intention of engaging in intercourse?" He asks you, cocking his head to the side as he tries to comprehend.

"Dean's just..." You try, but trail off.

You're floundering here. You have no idea what the hell Dean's doing in your bed, to be perfectly honest, let alone how to describe it to the angel.

"I was having trouble sleeping," you offer lamely. "It helps to have him in here, is all."

Castiel purses his lips and squints as he considers this explanation.

"Mind telling me what you're doing popping into her room in the middle of the damned night again?" Dean demands.

You can't help but feel bad when Cas' face falls. It looks like someone just kicked his puppy.

"It was not my intention to arrive here," he says, keeping his eyes downcast.

Correction, he looks like the puppy who's just been kicked.

"I have new information regarding the demons you were searching for earlier this evening and wanted to alert you immediately," he explains. "I set out with the intention of reaching you, but I did not realize that I would find you here. I sincerely apologize for the intrusion."

He looks like he's half a step away from sticking out his bottom lip.

You pinch Dean's bicep.

"Ow!" Dean whines and glares down at you. Grudgingly, he sighs and looks over at Cas. "All right, fine. Just... don't do it again, got it?"

Castiel visibly brightens. He nods his agreement. "I will give my best effort to avoid a repeat of this situation."

"See that you do. So, what about the demons?" Dean asks.

"They will be meeting in Blackwater, Missouri."

"When?"

"In three days."

Dean's jaw flexes impatiently.

"In three days?" He repeats.

"Correct." Castiel confirms, failing to see the problem.

You pat Dean's chest and smile at his effort not to completely lose his shit.

"All right. I guess we're hitting the road... in a couple days. Good work, Cas," Dean somehow manages with a forced smile.

The angel inclines his head graciously before teleporting back out of your room.

"Wow," you sigh.

"Yeah," Dean agrees.

"How long do you think it'll take before Sam and Kevin hear about this?"

"Couple hours, tops."

"Mmm-hmm," you agree. "Want a drink?"

"Read my mind."

A few minutes later, you're both sitting at the table in the main 'war-room' sipping scotch. The bunker is silent, so you know the instant Cas has managed to spill the beans. Evidently, you both gave him far too much credit for how long it would take.

Sam's door sounds like it's being ripped off the hinges and you can hear him stomping down the hall on gigantic bare feet.

"Here we go," Dean mutters with a smirk.

"_Dean?!_" Sam bellows furiously.

You try, God help you, you try not to laugh when he turns the corner and rushes into the room. Sam is shirtless and dressed in flannel pajama pants. His hair is wwaaayyy messier than yours was last week. He looks equal parts bewildered and angry.

And following along behind him is a very distressed angel.

"There you are!" Sam shouts when he sees you both. "Which one of you did it?" He demands.

"You're gonna have to be a bit more specific than that," Dean replies over his glass of scotch.

"Okay, fine." Sam grinds out through clenched teeth. "Which one of you told Cas that, if somebody is having a hard time sleeping, it's normal for him to climb into their bed and try to cuddle to 'help them sleep'?"

You and Dean both lose it.

And Sam's indignant bitch-face only makes it all the more difficult to stop laughing once you get started.

Kevin is up now, and tromps into the room looking half-asleep and thoroughly confused. "What is _wrong_ with you people?" He whines as he flops down into one of the chairs. "Don't you know it's 3:30 in the morning?" He groans and lays his head on the table.

"I apologize for the confusion, Sam," Castiel offers repentantly. "I was simply offering to assist you in the same manner as Dean was assisting her."

Sam's bitch-face is gone in a heartbeat. His eyes widen in shock as he turns back to face you both.

Kevin sits up straight. "_Whhaaatttt?_" He cries in a high-pitched voice and laughs in amazement.

"Really, now?" Sam asks as a shit-eating grin spreads across his face. "So... Dean finally managed to... 'assist' you, did he?"

"Is that what kids are calling it these days?" Kevin teases.

You clear your throat and look up at Dean expectantly. He's the one who started hopping into your bed, after all. He can damned well explain it to them. You already handled Cas.

"All right. Settle down. It's not like that. We really were just sleeping," Dean says defensively.

"Sure, right, yeah," Sam says, nodding in mock agreement before shooting you a skeptical look. "Of course, 'just sleeping'."

Needless to say, they don't buy it.

But it doesn't change anything. When you head back to your room to grab another few hours of sleep, Dean still comes with you.

You can't help but wonder as you climb into bed what's going to happen now that it's out there. Now that the other guys are going to be poking and prodding for information from both of you.

This... whatever the hell _this_ is... doesn't even have a name. It's comfortable and uncomplicated. And that's what makes it work. No pressure. No anything.

You hold on a little tighter this time when Dean curls himself around you. You realize that you're suddenly scared of losing the closeness you two have enjoyed. You grip a handful of his shirt - as if by hanging on, you can prevent this thing between you from slipping away. You close your eyes tightly against the fear.

But you tried _so damned hard_ not to get your heart torn out over this gorgeous man. You set up rules and barriers. You kept your feelings in check for over a year while working beside him every. damned. day. But Dean still found a grey area and wheedled his way in. And now you don't know how you could ever let him go.

He pulls you closer, pressing his lips to your forehead and whispering simply, "_We're okay_," as if he can hear your growing doubts and fears.

* * *

**A/N:** What do you think? Do you want more? Is everybody in character? Can you see and hear it playing out as you read? Did you LOL over anything? Be sure to let me know! :)

Thank you, thank you, thank you to the reviewers! You're awesome and my inspiration to see this through to the end. After a boatload of personal tragedy, this story is actually the first thing I've written and shared in over 2 years. Your reviews remind me why I love writing so much.


	5. Cut the Red Wire

The heckling only lasts a few hours the next morning. Kevin gets in a few good digs, but stops when Dean threatens him with bodily harm.

Sam busts on his brother for a while, then catches you alone in the kitchen after lunch.

"So... you and Dean, huh?" He asks with a smile in his voice, but you can tell he isn't really teasing. He's curious and, most likely, a little concerned. If you were to turn around and face him where he's currently leaning on the counter behind you, you'd undoubtedly find that his smile isn't reaching his eyes.

You all work well together. You and Sam are good friends at this point. But you deciding to start a relationship - especially one with the master of one-night-stands, Dean - has an extremely high probability of screwing everything up.

"Just sleeping," you say for the dozenth time since this whole thing came out. You keep your eyes on the task of putting things back into the fridge.

"Wait, seriously?" Sam asks in genuine amazement, finally trusting your response now that it's just the two of you.

You nod.

"Wow. Honestly did not see that coming," he laughs. "I thought that was just something Dean came up with on the spot."

"Nope. Legitamitely, literally, _just_ sleeping," you assure.

"Like... just sleeping... for _now_?" He presses.

You sigh heavily and shut the refrigerator door. Turning to face him, you lean your back against it and cross your arms over your chest.

"I don't know. I have no clue what we're doing," you admit in exasperation. "I told him we weren't going to have sex, now we're suddenly sleeping in the same bed every night. What that means? I've got no freaking idea. It just...is. We damned sure don't talk about it."

Sam laughs and tilts his head, "Yeah, well, that sounds like my brother."

He gives you an appraising look for a minute before nodding.

"Okay," he says, knocking on the counter and standing up straight as if the discussion is over.

"Okay?" You ask in confusion.

What is with these Winchesters? They gather everything they need from a conversation and reach their own conclusions before you realize you've said much of anything.

"Yeah. Okay," he confirms.

"That's it? No twenty questions? No busting my chops? No warning me that it's a bad idea?"

"None of that," he says. "You're a big girl, you know what you're getting yourself into."

"Do I?" You ask skeptically.

Sam chuckles. "Yeah, you do."

"I'm not so sure," you sigh.

"You'll do whatever's right for you, no matter what that turns out to be," he assures and puts his hands on your shoulders, damned near giving himself a crick in his neck to look down into your eyes. "Just know that if he hurts you... and you end up leaving? I promise I will make his life miserable for a very long time."

"How miserable?" You ask with a grin.

"Miserable like forgetting the pie every time. Or accidentally burning his vintage porn collection."

"Ouch!"

"Miserable like throwing away the coffee pot and replacing it with a blender for wheatgrass smoothies in the morning. Or devoting all of my time and energy to trying to make him embrace a vegan lifestyle."

"God, you're awesome!" You laugh and give him an appreciative hug.

As planned, two days later, you all go to Blackwater, Missouri for a hunt. Well, everyone aside from Kevin, of course.

It thoroughly sucks to sleep in a bed alone for the first time in over a week, but you somehow manage. Regardless of the fact that everyone knows about yours and Dean's new sleeping arrangement, apparently you both consider it to be private. Sharing a bed - however painfully platonically - while Sam and Castiel are in the room would just be weird.

As you try to fall asleep, you notice that you can at least still hear Dean snoring lightly on the couch across the room. Unfortunately, you can also hear Sam muttering in his sleep (something about clowns) in the bed next to yours and Castiel flipping through informercials on the TV.

In the morning, you hit the demon stronghold as a team, kick ass, and save the civilians who are being held captive in various locations throughout the sprawling warehouse complex. All in all, it goes smoothly.

Except, of course, for the part where you fall behind to save a little boy's life and, in so doing, get yourself captured. But the kid gets away safely, so it's worth it. A choice any hunter worth their salt-rounds would make.

It's really not a big deal.

Yes, you end up getting dragged down to the boiler room and roughed up. Sure, if the guys hadn't shown up precisely when they did, your throat would have been slit. (Seriously, we're talking cut-the-red-wire-with-1-second-to-spare style perfect timing. You thought for sure you were done for.)

But it isn't anything out of the ordinary.

One of you is almost always in danger at some point during a hunt. It's not the first time you've needed their help to avoid getting dead. And you've personally saved Sam and Dean (and even Kevin's) asses from similar situations more times than you can count since you started riding with them. This was just another day at the office.

Only now, for some unknown reason, Dean's acting like he's pissed off.

You're back at the motel. Dean is uncharacteristically taciturn as he slams things around. Everything he does is excessively LOUD - tossing the duffles on the floor, slamming doors, turning on the TV full blast. He hasn't said a word since they saved your ass.

Sam keeps shooting you anxious, purposeful looks in response to his brother's behavior. It's like he's trying to telepathically provide you with some crucial insight into the inner workings of Dean's mind. To prepare you for whatever shit-storm is about to hit. To advise you on some preemptive action you should be taking (_right freaking now!_) to smooth things over before there's a huge blow-up.

You can't be bothered. And you damned sure can't be expected to read Dean as well as Sam can. Whatever bug crawled up Dean's ass, you'll deal with it whenever he gets around to talking. At the moment, you're too busy sitting on the edge of your bed triaging your injuries.

Castiel is sitting at the table, frowning at you and looking thoroughly drained. He used up just about all of his juice taking down demons. He was already pretty well wiped out before he had to transport Dean and Sam to the boiler room in the nick of time to save you.

You've reassured him numerous times already that your injuries really aren't that bad. He helped to keep you alive, the least you can do is deal with a bit of pain and discomfort. This doesn't come close to the worst you've had in your life. You made Castiel promise that he would take the time to recover, but he is not at all pleased that he can't heal you.

There's a sizable gash on your bicep, beneath a rag from the Impala's trunk that Dean tied tightly around the wound. The rag long-since soaked through and it's still bleeding like a son of a bitch. It needs to be cleaned out and stitched up, but everything else is relatively minor. Just shallow cuts and some impressive bruising in a few places. You've got a nice lump forming on the back of your head from where it connected with the concrete, but you're fairly certain you're not concussed.

When you reach up to try and remove the knotted rag from your bicep, Sam finally can't take it anymore and speaks up.

"I can... stitch that up for you... if you need me to?" Sam offers slowly, but his eyes are on his brother's back the entire time.

Dean abruptly turns and tosses the first aid kit onto the bed beside you. He doesn't make eye contact with either of you as he grinds out, "I've got it," and angrily pulls off his jacket. His muscles are tense as he rolls up his sleeves and straddles the corner of the bed next to you.

Sam watches the two of you, gaze narrowed as he carefully analyzes the situation. Apparently, he's as talented at reading the rigid lines of his brother's back as he is at Latin. When he stands and pulls on his coat, grabbing Castiel by the arm and offering a lame excuse about them needing to stretch their legs and pick up some food, you wonder whether you should be making a hasty exit, too.

The door closes behind them and leaves you alone with Dean for the first time since you left the bunker yesterday morning. The TV is still blasting, but you resist the urge to turn it off. Tense silence would be far worse.

Dean gets to work untying the rag. When you give a quiet hiss as he pulls it away from the wound, his hands still and he mutters, "Sorry."

"It's fine," you answer quietly.

As he works, his breathing is slow and steady, but notably tense, as if he's taking great care to keep it even. His fingers are shaking slightly as he cleans out the wound, but you try to ignore it. He pours alcohol into the gash and you clench your jaw to avoid making a sound. When he offers you a bottle of booze to prepare for the stitches, you nod your thanks and take a few long gulps.

He stitches you up carefully, and you try to focus on the TV instead of the pain or the way Dean keeps swallowing hard - the way he discretely wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

When he finishes, he takes a few minutes checking the rest of your body over for any other injuries that might need work. You both know damned well that you already checked, but you're not gonna call him out on it.

He's done now. He turns off the TV and you're not sure what's coming next.

You're caught off guard when he reaches out and traces his thumb gently across the shallow cut on your throat. The place where the knife had been slicing in, preparing to take your life, when they arrived and saved you.

"Close one," you offer softly, and chance a glance at his face.

His eyes are full of so much emotion, it's overwhelming. It's always his eyes. With his face, he can lie and smile and play off any insult or injury. But his eyes always tell the truth.

You reach up and hold his hand where he's still touching the cut on your throat.

"I'm fine," you assure.

He nods and takes a deep breath, but his eyes remain trained on the cut, still haunted by what almost happened.

You don't know why you do it - maybe because he looks like he needs it so badly, or maybe because you missed having him in your bed last night - but you pull him over to you and wrap your arms around his shoulders. He comes willingly, pulling you close and holding on tighter than the bruising on your back appreciates. It's worth the discomfort when he eases you down onto the bed so that you're facing each other.

You laugh lightly when he lets your hair down. The man just cannot stand being unable to enjoy your hair. He presses his lips to the crown of your head and you idly stroke the short hair at the back of his neck.

He pulls away enough to stare into your eyes, and you're fighting the urge to kiss him so intensely that it's all you can think about.

"Thought we lost you," he admits hoarsely.

So few words spoken, and yet, when paired with the storm of emotion in his eyes, so much said with them:

_I thought you were dead.  
__I was terrified.  
__I blamed myself.  
__I was furious that I let it happen.  
__I thought I would never get to hold you like this again.  
__I don't know what I would have done if we hadn't gotten there in time._

_And I have no idea where to even _begin_ trying to tell you any of this with words._

You swallow hard.

"Sorry. Hazard of the job," you offer in barely more than a whisper.

The corner of his mouth turns upward in a sad smile.

"Yeah. Hazard of the job," he repeats.

"You've given me quite a few scares, too, in case you've forgotten," you remind.

"Sorry 'bout that," he offers.

"It's okay. Comes with the territory," you say with a shrug.

He laughs and nods his agreement.

"It does," he says. "But that's usually my line."

"Does it suck as badly to be on the receiving end as it does having to say it all the time?" You ask with a smirk.

"Yeah, it really does." He answers honestly.

He bites his bottom lip thoughtfully, in that distracting way that's so not helping your train of thought right now.

"Can I tell you something?" He asks, his voice taking on that roughness you can never get enough of.

"Knock yourself out," you reply.

"I'm kind of dying to kiss you right now," he admits. He licks his lips as his eyes wander to your mouth.

Your stomach feels like it just dropped.

Your heart leaps into your throat.

Your breathing hitches.

"Yeah. I know the feeling," you somehow manage to respond.

"But we're not gonna do that?" He asks curiously, his eyes still locked on your mouth.

"Hadn't planned on it..." you reply distractedly, because damn those full lips of his. They're making it really, really difficult to remember why you're supposed to be fighting this. "But I'm sorta having a hard time remembering why that is at the moment..."

_Did you just say that out loud?_

Dean smirks knowingly. "I seem to recall something about things getting 'weird' afterwards."

"Is that what I said?" You ask, watching his mouth longingly and still tracing your fingers over the nape of his neck.

"Mmm-hmm..." he purrs, leaning back into your touch.

Your heart is pounding in your ears as you breathe choppily.

Oh my God, you have never, ever wanted something so badly as you do right now. You just want to kiss him. Just a kiss. That'd be okay, right? You could totally stop there.

"Oh..." you manage breathily. "Let's not listen to me for a little while then, k?"

You lean forward and press your lips to his, and it's a perfect fit. He captures your bottom lip instantly, drawing it into his mouth and sucking lightly. You groan and gasp, and he takes the opening. His tongue slides in alongside your own and you're suddenly overwhelmed with the taste of him, the heat of his mouth.

You pull his body flush with yours, completely abandoning your prior mutually-honored no-contact-below-the-belt rule. Dean gives a growl of approval and rolls you over onto your back. He slides you both further up the mattress and rests your head on the pillow, all without taking his talented tongue away for even an instant.

Operating on pure instinct, you wrap your legs around his hips. He pulls away from the kiss long enough to hiss and let his eyes roll back appreciatively at the contact. He grinds down against you, and even with two pairs of jeans between you, the sensation is mind-blowing.

"Three years..." you mutter as Dean nibbles along your jaw.

"Three years what?" He breathes into your ear before moaning when you tug back on his hair.

"It's been...three years for me," you whimper as he sucks on your earlobe.

"Oh, baby. We're gonna take care of that," he chuckles.

You moan as he begins kissing his way down your throat, his hands kneading your breasts and teasing your nipples through your tank top.

"_Gonna take care of you... Been dreamin' about doing this_," he mutters against your skin.

You open your mouth to reply that, hells yes, you've been dreaming about it, too...

But that's when you hear them.

You both freeze.

"Oh God, _please_ not now," you whimper desperately.

But that's definitely Sam talking intentionally EXTRA LOUD! to Castiel as they approach the door.

Dean groans and looks down at you pleadingly, the green of his eyes practically smouldering. "Promise me you're not gonna change your mind?" He whispers before grinding down against you again.

You manage something that sounds vaguely like, "_uuunnnfff_..." in response, but emphatically nod your agreement.

Dean sneaks in one last deep, starved, mind-blowing kiss before hopping off of the bed and making a break for the bathroom. You roll over onto your side, away from the door, knowing damned well how thoroughly debauched you must look.

By the time you hear the key in the motel door, the shower is running.

Sam opens the door slowly and, seeing no nudity, enters. "Dinner's here," he calls. "Dean in the shower?"

"Yeah," you answer, trying to sound tired.

"He better not be using up all the damned hot water again," Sam grumbles as he pulls food containers out of the bag.

You press your fingers to your kiss-swollen lips and smile, knowing for sure that there's no danger of Dean using any hot water.

* * *

**A/N:** So? Want more? ;)


	6. She's My Cherry Pie

You spend the night alone in the motel bed, trying desperately to sleep and not think about your all-too brief romp with Dean.

In the morning, the sexual tension between the two of you is so strong the air is practically _crackling_ with it. You're using every ounce of self control to hold it together until you two can get back to the bunker.

And then Dean decides that the best way to vent his _own_ building frustration is to torment _you_ mercilessly.

The first time he does it, Sam and Castiel are outside loading up the car, preparing everything for the 6+ hour drive back to the bunker.

You're crouched down, packing your duffle when Dean creeps up behind you, pushes your hair aside, and bites the nape of your neck just hard enough to send chills and heat racing through your body. You groan and arch back against him when he easily pulls you up onto your feet. You offer no resistance, because you're fairly certain your legs just turned into jello.

With a knowing, rumbling chuckle, he wraps his arms around you to keep you steady. He moves up the side of your neck, nipping and sucking, rolling his tongue against your skin. His fingertips just barely slide up under the hem of your shirt to graze your bare stomach before you're interrupted.

Dean expertly manages to put a few feet of space between you just in time for Sam to walk back in to grab his duffle.

The younger Winchester stops short when he sees you both. He squints and eyes you appraisingly for a few seconds before going about his business. You're sure you look every bit as turned on as you're feeling. But Dean, the rotten bastard, manages to appear completely unaffected and innocent.

You take comfort in the fact that Sam knows Dean far too well to believe he's 'innocent' when standing next to a frazzled woman.

The second time he torments you, you've all been on the road for several hours. Sam has just gone into the store you're parked outside of to grab drinks. When Dean tells Cas to follow Sam and find him some pie, you know you're in trouble.

Cas is barely out of the car before Dean spins around in his seat and grins at you.

"_No!_" You laugh. "Whatever you're thinking? No!"

With the ease of a man who's probably had half of his sexual encounters within the interior of this car (and isn't that just a disturbing thought), he is over the back of the seat and covering your body with his own in a flash.

He kisses you frantically, groping and moaning and grinding and pulling back on your hair and you _swear_ you could get off just from this and then, without warning...

He's gone.

You sit up shakily, looking every bit the part of a mauling victim and slowly come back to your senses. Dean is back in the front seat, licking the taste of you from his lips and staring at you in the rear view mirror. He's grinning like the cat who ate the canary.

The Impala door squeaks and the car jostles as Sam slides into the passenger seat.

"Grabbed us some grub," he announces as he closes the door. "Not really much of a selection, but at least they had-"

He stops when he looks over at Dean. Seeing the self-satisfied expression on his brother's face, Sam scowls suspiciously. Turning in his seat, he takes one look at you and rolls his eyes. He sits back in his seat heavily.

"Never mind..." he huffs bitchily. "I see you've already eaten."

"Just the appetizer," Dean assures cheekily.

Sam grimaces.

Castiel climbs into the backseat beside you and passes a bag up to Dean. "They only had cherry. I hope that is satisfactory."

"_Mmm_... looks absolutely delicious," Dean damned near purrs, winking at you in the rear view.

You shift in your seat, your heart racing because he damned sure hasn't even looked at the slice of pie Cas brought.

Sam glares over at his brother, knowing damned well what he's doing. "_Dean_," he says low in warning.

"Finger-lickin' good, even," Dean continues, pointedly ignoring his brother. His eyes are still locked with yours as he swipes his tongue suggestively across his upper lip. "I'm telling you, I cannot _wait_ to get it open and-"

"Ugh! _Duuddeee!_" Sam finally cries in disgust at being subjected to his brother's double entendres.

Dean tosses his head back and laughs heartily before putting it in drive and pulling back out onto the road. "Prude," he teases.

That night, back at the bunker, you find yourself alone in your bed, staring at the clock, wound up tight with sexual frustration and waiting eagerly for Dean to show.

You're wearing excessively-short shorts and a flimsy tank top this time, which'll give him instant access to far more of your skin than he's ever been permitted to touch in the past. You're shaved and lotioned to the appropriately high standards for first-time-sex-with-a-super-hot-guy. You took extra time arranging your hair in a sleeker version of his favored fresh-from-bed style. You even broke out your expensive as hell bra and panties - the matching set you splurged on a few months back and reserved only for such special occasions. Not that any part of you thought it'd be Dean you'd be wearing them for when you bought them.

By 2:00 AM, you feel yourself starting to fade. You wonder if he's intentionally making you wait to build up the anticipation. You don't think that's particularly fair, as you're pretty sure it's not physically possible to want it any more than you already do.

You try not to worry that he's changed his mind. Because, seriously? Dean? Change his mind about the sex he's been trying to have with you for a year?

You try not to get annoyed that he's keeping you waiting. Because, yeah - you did sorta say no for a year.

At some point, you finally lose the battle and drift off, stretched out on top of the covers.

You wake to the hair-raising sensation of being watched and before you can slide your hand beneath your pillow for your gun, you hear him.

"Hey, beautiful," he rumbles, somehow knowing that you're awake.

You smile drowsily and open your eyes, surprised to find him sitting in a chair several feet away from your bed. He always just slid right in beside you before. You stretch in an admittedly intentionally-provocative manner and laugh lightly at the appreciative hissed, _'Ooh... yeah, girl...'_ he gives in response to the view.

"What ya doin' way over there?" You ask, pouting slightly.

"Waiting for you to wake up," he replies.

"But there's all this empty space right here," you say, sliding your hand across the mattress in front of you. "And I'm sure you could have thought of some way to wake me up."

He chuckles and nods. "More than a few ways crossed my mind while I was waiting, believe me. Especially with you wearing that. Almost broke my restraint when I walked in here." He clears his throat and tries to sound serious as he goes on. "But I've got some stuff I need to say first, so I'm just gonna go ahead and say it."

"Well... that sounds ominous," you say, arching a brow apprehensively.

"Don't worry. It's not," he assures.

"You sure you can't say it over here?" You ask, patting the bed beside you in invitation with one hand while twirling a lock of your hair with the other.

Dean licks his lips at the sight of you in that moment. "When I get into that bed with you? Trust me, darlin', the _last thing_ I'm gonna be doing with my mouth is talking."

"Ooh, promise?" You tease.

"You bet that sweet little ass of yours," he says with a wink.

"This sweet little ass is _yours_ - just as soon as you get over here and take it," you purr and settle down onto your stomach, watching as his eyes become fixated on the curve of your ass.

"You're making this really difficult," he declares in a voice that's at least a full octave higher than normal.

You laugh at the desperation in his tone and resist the urge to apologize for making it _hard_ for him.

"But back to... what I wanted to say," he says, trying to focus. "Look, the thing is... I may bust on Sammy, but I haven't exactly had the best track record with women, either. I mean sure, it's a _long_ record..." he grants, his eyes widening for emphasis.

You wince and sit up in bed, abandoning the seductive pose and tone of voice. "Annndd I'm suddenly feeling a headache coming on."

"No, no. No headaches!" He laughs. "I promise, I _am_ going somewhere with this."

"Can you be going somewhere other than a highlight reel of exes and one-nighters? Cuz really? So not a turn-on."

"Yeah. Right. Got it," he says with a nod and rubs his palms across the tops of his legs before drawing a hand over his mouth.

You frown as you take in his body language. You can almost hear Castiel's voice in your head, struggling to identify what Dean is conveying: _Insecurity. Nervousness. Uncertainty._

Taking a deep breath, Dean leans forward and drapes his forearms over his knees.

"What I'm trying to say is... there's a reason for it. This is my life. Hunting demons and monsters. Hustling and running scams to pay my way. Living in a secret underground bunker, for Christ's sake, when I'm not driving all over the place and crashing in cheap motels.

"By most people's standards, my brother and I are entirely too codependent and I have an unhealthy infatuation with my car. I have a socially retarded angel damned near crawling up my ass half the time and I somehow managed to adopt a twitchy little geek of a prophet. Seriously, the kid just imprinted on us like a baby duck.

"I fight. I flirt as easy as I breathe. I'm stubborn as hell. I probably drink too much and Sammy swears if I don't die on a hunt, my cholesterol's gonna kill me long before I ever see 40. But that's who I am. I'm not gonna change. I'm never gonna be that guy working a 9-to-5, paying a mortgage, going home to a wife and kids in a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence and a dog-"

"Dean," you interrupt his rant gently and wait for him to meet your gaze. "I know all of that. It's fine. You don't need to-"

"Just... _bear with me,_" he pleads and swallows hard to keep some unnamed emotion in check. His eyes become trained on his now tightly-clasped hands. "I'm trying to tell you something important here."

"Okay," you answer a bit anxiously, wondering briefly whether you should be testing his reaction to silver. Dean doesn't talk. He doesn't share his thoughts and feelings. But he's already said more in this impromptu rambling speech than the entirety of the time you've known him. It's actually a little scary, to be honest, watching him open up without warning. But you hold your tongue and let him try to get it out.

"The reason I don't get involved is because we have to use lines like, 'Hazard of the job,' and 'Comes with the territory'." He continues. "Because more often than not, shit goes bad and when it does? People get hurt and killed. And the bastards we hunt don't care if we want to keep our families separate. Anyone we get close to, we're putting them in danger. But _you_?"

He looks up at you finally, smiling as he meets your gaze.

"You're right, you _do_ know all of this. Because it's your life, too. I don't have to try to make you understand. I don't have to hide this shit from you. I'm not putting you in danger because you were hunting long before we met and, if we hadn't started working together, you'd still be out there doing it solo.

"And yeah, one of these days, one of us won't come back from a hunt. Don't have to like it to know it's true. Just the way it is. Might be tomorrow, might be ten years from now. But until that happens..."

He bites his bottom lip and narrows his eyes, studying yours to gauge your reaction.

"I guess what I'm really trying to say is... if you're in? If you're into... _this_," he says, motioning between the two of you. "Then I'm in. All the way. Not just for kicks. Not until somebody else comes along. In for real."

With that final declaration, the room falls to silence.

You have no idea what to say.

Your mind seems to have suffered a system error and is struggling to reboot.

"I umm..." he clears his throat and looks back down at his hands. "I can't promise you it'll be easy or perfect," he goes on a little unsteadily.

Some part of your brain recognizes that he's misinterpreting your silence as hesitation. He sounds borderline self-conscious, which is just all kinds of wrong coming from Dean.

"But I give you my word that I will never intentionally hurt you," he offers sincerely. "You know me. I'm as loyal as they come and I take care of the people that matter to me. I guess it's just that... if we're gonna start doing more than 'just sleeping' together, I wanted you to know where I'm coming from."

"_Dean_..." you try, but trail off, too overwhelmed to speak.

"So if you want to um... take some time to think about it..." he says as he stands up.

You realize in panic that he's getting ready to bolt out the door. He's feeling way too vulnerable in this situation and seeking an escape.

Thankfully, your feet are moving before your brain can catch up.

"Wait," you say, snagging his wrist as he turns toward the door. "I'm in, Dean. For real. All in."

He turns to face you slowly.

"Yeah?" He asks, studying your eyes cautiously.

"_Hell_ yeah," you answer with a grin.

A warm smile slowly spreads across his face.

"Yeah. Okay then," he says, nodding and staring down into your eyes intently. "Sooo... celebratory sex?" He offers with an arched brow and a wicked smirk.

"Thought you'd never ask," you reply and laugh when he lifts you up off your feet.

* * *

**A/N:** What do you think? Looking forward to the next part? I know, I know. Wicked, evil cliff-hanger ;) But I promise to pick up right at this point in the next chapter. I'm not gonna skim over any of the good stuff, promise.

* * *

I have to say a HUGE thank you to the reviewers, because without feedback from readers, this story would just sit around, collecting dust and wouldn't be updated as fast as it has been so far.

NAWag1R: You're a doll. Love you and thank you for following along! MWAH!

ebonywarrior85, dot, Sanela, Aeuna, MaddieLB, kasero, and unnamed guests: You all rock my frilly fangirlish socks with your thoughts. Thank you for sharing!

Sam: I want to climb you like a tree. _OH_ - wait, right, you're not _that_ Sam... LOL Thank you for the feedback! I seriously cracked up at "GURLLL do not stop"

Looneczka: Not gonna lie, I teared up a bit at your praise. Your review was PERFECT and made my night.

Kate R: You are absolutely amazing. When a reader takes the time to highlight what they enjoyed about each chapter? It's like catnip to me. Thank you soooo much for your in depth comments. I hope this and the next chapter do your feedback justice!


	7. Preaching to the Choir

Dean lifts you up and guides you to wrap your legs around his hips. (Not that you needed any encouragement, for the record.) For a moment, he just lets his eyes pass over your face, taking in every detail. You wonder if he's doing what you often do - saving the memory for a rainy day.

There's a softness in his eyes that you realize you've never seen before, and you take the time to appreciate its significance. He's opening up to you, letting you see the side he hides behind all the flirting and joking around. In essence, you're meeting the man you just agreed to date for the first time.

You smile at that and trace your fingertips along his right brow and down beside his eye, to the now-smooth place where the skin is usually creased in doubt or anger or laughter. He looks younger when he's not holding onto his mask.

Placing your hands on either side of his face, you bring your lips to his gently. He inhales deeply and leans into your kiss, but doesn't deepen it just yet. When you pull away, you press your forehead to his and run your fingers through his hair.

"There just aren't even words to describe how bad I want you," you assure breathlessly.

Dean smirks. "Preaching to the choir, babe. Been waiting a damned year for you to come to your senses."

You laugh at that and nod before wriggling free of his grasp and sliding down onto your feet. He makes a disappointed little sound in his throat and you arch a brow.

"You're wearing way too many layers," you explain. "Not fair when I'm wearing so little."

You slide his open-as-always button-down shirt over his shoulders and down his arms before letting it fall to the floor. You can't help but bite your bottom lip when you grab the bottom of his t-shirt. He holds up his arms as you pull it up the length of his torso. He chucks the shirt over his shoulder once he's free of it.

"God..." you groan when faced with his shirtless chest and stomach.

Dean chuckles and puts his hands on your hips, drawing you closer. "Sounds like I pass inspection."

"Uh-huh," you breathe. You trace your fingers along a still-pink scar on his chest, just a few inches below his ward tattoo. "I've been daydreaming about taking your shirt off ever since I dug the bullet outta here and stitched you up."

"Thought you took an awful long time working on that," he teases.

"Can't blame a girl for prolonging the view," you offer with a shrug.

You lean forward and press your lips to the scar. Dean reaches up and slides his hand into your hair, holding the back of your head and inhaling shakily - presumably at the restraint it's taking for him not to just throw your happy little ass on the bed already.

"Your turn," he urges as you pull away.

He inches your shirt up slowly, watching each new bit of skin as it is revealed to him. By the time your stomach is exposed, his expression is almost pained in its appreciation of your body.

"_So worth the wait_," he mutters before sliding your shirt the rest of the way off. He sucks in a deep breath between his teeth and chucks your shirt aside. "Ooh, red lace. And it's not even my birthday," he purrs, running his finger down the center of your bra, between your breasts. "This is new."

"How would you know?" You laugh.

"'Cause you wear white cotton bras. Panties, too. Even the thongs," he answers as if it's common knowledge.

You arch a brow, your expression thoroughly amused, but clearly conveying that you expect an explanation. When he tears his eyes away from your breasts long enough to notice you're staring at him, he shrugs and gives you a sly smile.

"What? I pay attention. Caught enough glimpses to paint a _very_ graphic mental image," he assures. He licks his lips at the way your breath hitches when he teases your nipple through the lace. "Got a lot of miles outta that image, too. Believe me." After puckering his damnably sexy lips thoughtfully and considering it, he adds, "In fact, go with a white cotton set tomorrow. I got some long overdue plans for them."

"Whatever you want," you reply with a light laugh.

Leaning forward, he kisses his way across the tops of your breasts. Your mouth falls open slightly as you watch him work.

"Very sexy, baby. You buy this for me?" He asks before ducking his head to suck on each of your nipples through the lace.

Your head rolls back and you run your nails over his scalp while trying to maintain your powers of speech.

"Well... I... _unngg_... did buy it... _because_ of you," you offer in a daze, cradling his head closer.

"That so?" He mutters against your skin before kissing his way back up your throat, bringing his lips to hover close to yours. "Why because of me?" He whispers as his eyes search yours intently.

"Picked it up after that night in the Poconos. Got me so damned hot for you, figured I'd need to wear it for _somebody_ soon," you tease as he nips at your mouth.

(Pinned down by a Wendigo in the middle of a snow storm. Dean doing his best to convince you that there was only _one way_ to beat hypothermia. It had been a loonnng night.)

"Hey, I was just trying to share body heat," he insists with a sly smile. He quickly pulls your body flush against his and says roughly into your ear, "And it'd never have been for anybody but me. Wouldn't have allowed it."

"It's all yours now," you assure breathlessly as he starts backing you towards the bed.

"Damned straight," he agrees, guiding you back to lay on the mattress. "_All_ mine..." he whispers as he looks down at you.

You watch the subtly flexing muscles of his arms and chest as he leans down over your body and slides his hands down your sides. The roughness of his hands on your bare skin sends your heart racing. He hooks his fingers under the waistband of your shorts and peels them off just as slowly as he did your shirt, pausing to nip at your calf before dropping them on the floor.

His eyes are practically smoldering as he stands upright. He bites his bottom lip and pauses briefly to take in the sight of you spread out before him in only a bra and panties.

"Baby, I hope you didn't have any plans for tomorrow," he says with a sexy smirk. "'Cause you are damned sure not getting out of this bed."

His hands go for his belt, seeking to keep you both in equal states of undress, but you reach out and stop him.

"Wait. Leave them on for now," you urge with a smile. In reply to his questioning look, you add, "Been dying to make out with you like this pretty much since the day we met."

Truth. The man can **rock** shirtless with a pair of jeans. About a week after the Brothers Winchester came crashing into your life, you walked into the garage and found Dean changing his shirt after an oil change. You'd nearly swallowed your own tongue.

"Oh, really?" He purrs in intrigue as he crawls onto the bed, settling his knees between your legs. He kisses you hungrily before pulling back and whispering against your lips, "_Like this?_"

"Mmm... exactly like this," you assure.

He takes his time kissing you, testing out every angle and depth, nipping playfully at your lips and chuckling as he dodges your attempts to nip back.

The feeling of him is as addictive as you anticipated it to be. His bare chest and back and arms are right above you, free for you to greedily explore with your roving hands. His warm, bare stomach is brushing against yours. His denim-clad hips are nestled perfectly in between your thighs. His hard-on is straining against his jeans, pressing into you through your red lace each time he rolls his hips.

As time passes and you memorize the taste of his lips, your need for him grows immeasurably stronger. When it gets to the point where the only lucid thought thundering through your mind on repeat is 'MORE,' you let your body do the talking.

You run your fingertips down his sides and over his ribs roughly. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and draw his body down against you. You squeeze your legs tighter around his hips, grinding up against him as your kiss becomes starved.

Dean groans desperately into your mouth in reply. He gets the message loud and clear.

Somehow, he manages to unbuckle his belt, peel off his jeans, and shuck your bra, all while you're busy nibbling and sucking on his earlobe and throat. He grinds down against you and you moan his name at the increased intensity of the sensation. With his jeans now gone, only the thin cotton of his boxers and a scrap of lace stand between you.

He kisses his way roughly along your jaw, pausing to whisper into your ear, "_Gotta taste you, baby. Gotta get my mouth on you_..."

You give a quintessentially feminine breathy-moan in reply and nod eagerly. You think you might have managed to say "Okay" in a daze, too. No telling for sure, though, because your brain is locked on: Dean. Taste. Mouth. On. You.

Your trembling hands are still struggling to continue their explanation of his warm, soft skin as he begins his descent. You stroke and rake your nails lightly over his shoulders as he leaves a trail of hot, wet, biting kisses down your chest. He takes his time on each of your breasts, thoroughly teasing and sucking at each nipple as if becoming formally acquainted with them. ("_Hi. I'm Dean. We're gonna be spending a _lot_ of time together, trust me._")

You prop yourself up when he reaches your stomach, not wanting to miss a second of this show. Your hands are on his neck now, kneading the muscle and struggling not to urge him on.

Dean pauses at your side, chuckling victoriously when he discovers that you're ticklish. He rolls his tongue against your skin, apparently pleased with the squirming you give in response.

He looks up at you, keeping your gazes locked. His green eyes are bright with need as he kisses his way down your hip and the inside of your thigh. Each hot, open-mouthed kiss brings him steadily closer to where his touch is so urgently needed, but he stays just beyond the red lace border.

You grip the covers beside you and pant, pupils blown wide with want. Your knees are quaking in anticipation. When you finally groan in impatience, finally let your head roll back and eyes close, you feel his fingers slide beneath the lace.

You moan and squeeze your eyes closed as he strokes you lightly.

"_Already soaked for me_," he groans against your thigh.

You somehow manage to open your eyes and look down at him again. His full lips are locked on the flesh of your inner thigh as he sucks hard enough to leave one hell of a mark. A brand. A tag that clearly reads: 'Dean was here.'

His gaze is locked between your legs on the spectacle of slow, stroking torture that he's currently administering. You watch his now red, kiss-swollen lips release their hold on your skin to form a silent, 'Ooohh...' as he slowly presses two fingers inside of you.

The whimper you give in response is just about as desperate-sounding as a whimper can be.

"Yeah, baby girl. That feel good?" He growls, pressing deeper and crooking his fingers, hitting your G-spot as if he'd been given GPS coordinates in advance.

"Mmm-hmm. Oh _God_," you moan.

He smiles and licks his lips, stroking slowly and exactly the way your body needs him to. He's attentive, patient, and precise - much the same way he is when cleaning his weapons... And now you'll never be able to watch him do that again without getting turned on.

"Come on, baby," he coaxes as your body tenses.

"Dean," you whimper and grab his shoulder, squeezing it gradually tighter as the pleasure low in your belly builds stronger and stronger.

How... No, rather, _WHY_ in the hell did you put this off for so long?

"Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean..." you pant incoherently and finally trail off in a long moan as your orgasm hits, slow and strong.

"That's it. Come for me," he growls.

You lose your self in the moment. All of your senses are drowned out by the wave of pleasure he just unleashed. You're only vaguely aware of your surroundings, of the fact that you're moaning into the pillow that you pulled over to you at some point.

Gradually, you start to come back to reality.

You pry your eyes open and look down to find Dean grinning up at you triumphantly.

"Hey," he greets. "So... three years, huh?"

You laugh and nod, knowing better than to even attempt to speak.

"Then we got a lot of time to make up for. Now, where was I?" He teases before leaning forward and pressing his mouth against the soaked red lace of your panties.

You groan and writhe appreciatively.

He hooks his fingers beneath the sides of your panties and slides them down over your thighs, guiding you to raise your legs up so he won't have to move away to get them off. He tosses them over his shoulder without a second glance.

After a year of chasing you, he finally has you completely naked, wet, eager, and ready for him.

"God _damn_, girl," he groans and grinds his hips down against the mattress, reflexively seeking any kind of friction. His mouth is on you as soon as the words have left his lips.

You are fairly certain that everyone in the bunker must think you're being murdered in that moment. You just don't give a damn.

Dean grabs your hips and pulls you closer, crushing his mouth against you as if he's starving for it. He urges you to wrap your legs around his head, and hell if you're gonna argue. His tongue delves inside of you, swirling and thrusting.

You throw your head back, crying out as you grip his hair with both hands. When he moves up and latches onto your clit, it's all over. Less than a minute of his rhythmic sucking and you're done.

You come screaming Dean's name, the Lord Almighty's name, babbling incoherently about how good he is, and God only knows what else. There may have been some Latin in there. It's a good thing you don't know any state secrets because you'd totally have spilled it all.

When you open your eyes, Dean is kicking off his boxers. He's breathing heavily, his eyes wild with need as he crawls up the length of your body.

You reach out and press a hand to his chest. He already got you off twice and you haven't had a chance to return the favor. When you try to slide your hand down his stomach toward his cock, he snatches your wrist and hisses.

"_Don't_. Next time," he grinds out.

You take another look at the ravenous need in his gaze and nod. He's trying too hard to hold back as it is. If you start using your hands and mouth on him now, he's not gonna last.

As if suddenly remembering something, he starts to climb off of the bed. You grab his hand. He smirks and says, "Condom," so you grudgingly relent.

Since you two are going to be exclusive moving forward, you'll have to talk about that. If you can play werewolf bait, you can damned well have sex with Dean Winchester without a condom. **So** not the most dangerous thing you'll have ever done. Especially as cautious as he is (and has undoubtedly always been about sex.)

But that's a discussion for later.

He's back in a flash. You can't help but let your eyes rake over his naked body hungrily while he tears open the foil with his teeth and rolls the condom down his length.

"God, just get inside me already," you moan.

Dean laughs and nods. "Read my mind."

He leans down and kisses you deeply, growling into your mouth as he begins slowly sliding into you. You grip his shoulders and kiss him back frantically, maddened by the feeling of him filling you up.

"_So fuckin' tigh_t," he mutters against your mouth breathlessly and it's the sexiest thing you've ever heard.

You wrap your legs around his hips, drawing him closer, trying to hurry him along, but he takes it nice and slow until finally, he's bottomed out. He stops and presses his forehead to your lips, giving himself a moment to calm down and slow his breathing before moving.

"You feel so good, babe," you moan against his brow. "I am never getting out of this bed with you."

The sensation of having him buried inside of you is sinfully exquisite. You've never felt something so perfect. You could literally do nothing but have sex with him for the rest of your life and you'd die a perfectly happy woman.

"Deal," Dean chuckles before pulling away enough to look down into your eyes. He keeps your gazes locked as he slides out slowly. He bites his bottom lip before thrusting back into you.

"_Ung_..." you manage, and when he pulls out again, almost completely, you move with him. You find a rhythm quickly - not too fast, not too slow - the two of you watching the building pleasure in each other's features as you move together.

Dean is even sexier than ever (if that's possible) when he's on the verge of coming. His mouth hangs open slightly. His brows are drawn together and features are twisted in an almost pained expression. His eyelids are heavy. His cheeks are flushed. He keeps breathing your name in barely more than a whisper. His face and body are covered in a sheen of sweat - just enough to make it hot and slippery as you clutch at one another.

He reaches up and slides his hand into your hair, getting a firm grip and pulling back slightly, just enough to tilt your head and offer your lips up to him. His pace quickens as he ravishes your mouth with his. Every muscle in his body is tensed and trembling as he gets close to the edge.

"Come on, Dean. Come inside me, babe," you purr as you gaze up into those wild green eyes. "Harder. _Give it to me, Dean_."

The growl of approval he gives, as well as the way he completely abandons all attempts to hold back, tell you that those were the magic words.

His body slams against yours, and you meet him thrust for thrust, desperate to feel him lose control. More desperate for him to finish than you are for your own release. He's groaning and panting in your ear, kissing and biting your mouth and your jaw and your throat, telling you how good it feels, how hot and wet and tight and perfect, telling you that he's _close_... that he's _gonna_...

He wraps his arms around you, gripping you tightly to his chest and burying himself inside of you as his entire body goes rigid. You get off just from the sounds he makes as he comes. The feeling of him throbbing deep inside of you is just the icing on the cake.

You're glad you're not the only one who blacks out for this round. When you finally open your eyes, you realize that Dean's still got you wrapped up in his arms. He's still panting and moaning and kissing the side of your neck. You smile contentedly at that and close your eyes, reveling in the moment.

It takes him another minute or two before he rolls over onto his side, but he drags you along with him. With the absolute bare minimum of movement and space between you, he pulls out and tosses the condom in the trash. You're thankful he's able to do so without getting out of bed, because you're not planning on letting him go any time soon.

Dean nuzzles his nose into your hair and kisses your temple. "At least a day in this bed. You in?"

"All in," you answer with a smile before kissing him sweetly.

* * *

**A/N:** Happy Holidays! Consider this my gift for you lovely reviewers and readers :) Let me know what you think! Reviews are the only gifts I request in return. LOL

This is currently the end of the story. I _might_ be persuaded to return to this verse for an epilogue or another story if there is enough interest from readers. So, if you want more, be sure to review!

Sorry for the delay, BTW. Started a new job and Dean was being extremely chatty when I tried to lay this chapter out. LOL I was doing the 'Now Kiss!' thing, but he just wanted to joke and flirt. Wanted to wait until I could see the scene before I wrote it. Hope it paid off and you were able to imagine it all clearly!


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